


you got that young blood, set it free

by MissingOne123



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Crying, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 12:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingOne123/pseuds/MissingOne123
Summary: There's a real learning curve to handling Nico's doom-and-gloom, but Will's determined that they can figure it out together.





	you got that young blood, set it free

**Author's Note:**

> A little thing I wrote for a creative writing class.

“Nico, you gotta stop this.” 

You stare at Will, who sits across from you in a seat at the wooden picnic table. His plate of food is untouched, fork discarded and his hands instead balled into fists. He looks sad and exasperated. His voice had sent a shrill down your spine. It felt like claws, grabbing you by the nape of your neck and dragging you out, like a cat from under the bed. 

“Neeks, gods damn it, look at this. Look around you- Look at _me_.” The last part gives you another start. The sight of the dark bags under his bright eyes, a contrast against tanned, freckled skin, feels like icicles in your gut and you know that it's because of you, because he worries himself half to death about anyone, and for you he would worry himself dead three times over if you'd let him.

The guilt is coiled up tight, settled deep in your person. His piercing look still manages to give you a good shake down despite everything, though, like it always has. You hate the effect he has on you, how easily he manages to light a fire under your chilled bones. 

You freeze up, ironically, and consider. You manage to force yourself to look at him for a moment- all worried lips and blonde hair and freckled, bronze skin. He looks torn and frustrated but there’s the glint of determination in his eye you’ve come to know so well, too.

It hurts to look at him. You wish he’d just leave, or finally just let you go. You don’t know how to handle it and you know you sure as hell don’t deserve his concern. Your fingers flex out of sight, under the table and against your thigh, a shaky breath escaping your lungs. Like always, being faced with sudden confrontation has left you tense, unwilling, and he knows that. You know that he knows he’s almost in, too, chipping away at the last remnants of the walls you’ve put up a long time ago, and he’s not going to give up now. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t let me, Nico.” His voice is quieter again now, fingers uncurling. His knuckles rest on the marble table you're sat at, arm extended and palm up towards you. He pushes the plate of half-eaten food to the side and leans forward.

Your shoulders heave with rattling breath you take in again, filling the space inside your ribs with pins and needles. 

There’s a part of you that wants to meet him there and take his hand, to let him in and just _be_. To wipe away the guilt that sits heavily in your gut like rocks and untie the lead weight of sadness attached to your feet. There’s another part, though, that’s louder, a voice that mirrors your own- that says don’t bring him down, don’t bring him with you, it can only end badly, he’ll only end up hurt and you can’t be the one to do that to him. 

So you don’t take his extended hand. You don’t meet him halfway and you don’t let his light brighten up your shadowy corners or warm your cold bones. You just fold your arms across your chest and tuck your hands in close, huddling in on yourself as you turn your chin away, ever stubborn. 

He watches on sadly and you don't miss the sigh he exhales as he pulls his hands back, returning to his plate to absently shovel the remaining bits of food around with a silver fork in silence.

You think that the downward tug of his lips might hurt more than the grating pain inside you. 

“I’m sorry,” you try, feeling helpless and more than a little defeated. 

He inhales and you don't know if it's an effect of the Apollo in him or just an effect of Will but the sound inspires something warm in you, always has. His shoulders rise and he drops his fork again. It clatters loudly against the plate. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Nico, I just want you to be happy.”

“It’s not that easy, Will!” You’re as surprised as he is when you raise your voice. The emotion swelling inside is unfamiliar and intense, leaving your fingers trembling and elbows shaking. 

“Don’t you think I know that? But, gods, you have to try, Nico!” You cringe when he yells back and the area around you goes fuzzy, blurring at the edges. Something swoops in your gut again, and reality flickers briefly, leaving darkness and cold in it's place before it returns again. He’d sat up again at that point, nearly out of his seat, but when he sees your reaction, you can hear him trying to steady his breaths once more. 

“I am trying-” Your voice cracks and you can already feel hot tears form in the corner of your eyes. You don’t get to finish because immediately, he’s sliding out from the picnic bench and skirting around it, like he’s done it before. Has done it before. A lump forms in your throat as he takes up the space at your side. It puts you on edge and you can feel the hair on your arms and on the back of your neck begin to rise as he presses himself against you.

He seems to have this idea that maybe if he can’t get in with his words, maybe he can bombard you with enough affection and confuse your defenses long enough to get in. You hate how well it works.

He puts his hand over yours and twines your fingers together and you come apart so easily it’s pathetic. You turn your head into his shoulder and feel as his arm comes to rest around your back and sit in a heavy silence, heart thumping in your throat. He’s steady and solid and he somehow- _somehow_ \- manages to bring you back down again, enveloping you in warmth and sunshine and light. 

At some point, your breathing even outs and, for a moment, you can pretend that it's easy.


End file.
